That choral programme, as promised

The return match with the choir from Fort William this afternoon, and a very successful concert it was. A smaller hall and a slightly smaller choir, but the general consensus was that the overall performance was better than last night. Well, we down in Argyll kid on to the Fort William lot that the concert up there is only ever the dress rehearsal …
Here’s the programme of the choral pieces we sang:
Anvil Chorus from Il Travatore – Verdi
Chorus of Hebrew Slaves from Nabucco – Verdi
Grand March from Aida – Verdi
Brother Dear from Die Fledermaus – Johann Strauss
Glory and Love from Faust – Charles Gounod
Easter Hymn from Cavalleria Rusticana – Pietro Mascagni
finishing with
Carmen – Bizet
We were joined by a tenor who sang some lovely early Italian romantic songs, a viola player who gave us Massenet’s Meditation and a trumpeter for the Grand March from Aida. We were also graced by a pair of crowbar players for the anvil chorus!

Blood running down my head, but the chick’s fine

We decided this morning that it was urgent to move Columbine and her chick, together with any potential siblings in ovo (‘scuse bad Latin) from the main coop to a smaller place where she could raise the wee ane in suitable accommodation. Her Maj and I surveyed one of the A-framed coops down in the goose pens and decided that it would do very well after a little cleaning, so we got down and dirty in that cause. Soon had the small coop clean and with a new layer of shavings inside, so the next task was to make a nest box for Columbine and her clutch of eggs/chick combo. An old cardboard box was pressed into service and partially-filled with shavings for the purpose.
This was when the head injury occurred. Now, PTC is bald on top and, as a consequence, the old scalp is fairly fragile and easily-damaged. Having scraped most of the top layer of skin off with the garage door a couple of days ago it stood no chance at all when I banged it into the iron beam that supports the roof of the coop as I leant inside; the last of the layers of skin were peeled from the scalp and the blood flowed freely. Undaunted by the injury, and far too cross to want to go in and have it sorted out, I insisted on carrying on with the exercise.
The chick was so well tucked into Columbine’s wing that it was tricky to disentangle it from her, but when that was accomplished I popped the chick in my top pocket and picked up Mum so that she could see the chick as I carried her down to the new coop. We popped them in and I went back to collect the other eggs that she had been sitting on, discarding the really old ones which were, by now, clearly addled.
Her Maj had not been idle and had been grinding up some meal for the chick, which, with a saucer of pebbles for water, were placed in the coop and the chook and chooklet shut up inside.
The gander was, by now, taking considerable interest in the proceedings and it was clear that he’d give them no peace, given half a chance. The run for the coop was goose-proof, but not chick-proof, so we re-arranged some chicken wire and corrugated iron to make the run suitable for its new occupants.
We’re keeping Columbine shut up inside today so she gets used to the new place and may open the coop so she and the chooklet can get into the run tomorrow if it suits them. She has settled into the back of the coop and seems happy on her new nest, so fingers crossed for the next few days. The fun bit will be moving them back to the main coop in due course, but we’ll worry about that when the time comes.
After all this poultry enterprise, went back in to get myself ready for the concert this afternoon and was surprised to see tracks of dried blood running down my face from the scrape on the head. Perhaps it’s time to get a nice protective syrup.
Oh, toggies tomorrow if all goes well.

Greenballs

You Are Emerald Green

Deep and mysterious, it often seems like no one truly gets you. Inside, you are very emotional and moody – though you don’t let it show. People usually have a strong reaction to you… profound love or deep hate. But you can even get those who hate you to come around. There’s something naturally harmonious about you.

What Color Green Are You?

Another little bit of blogging nonsense.

That choral programme, as promised

The return match with the choir from Fort William this afternoon, and a very successful concert it was. A smaller hall and a slightly smaller choir, but the general consensus was that the overall performance was better than last night. Well, we down in Argyll kid on to the Fort William lot that the concert up there is only ever the dress rehearsal …
Here’s the programme of the choral pieces we sang:
Anvil Chorus from Il Travatore – Verdi
Chorus of Hebrew Slaves from Nabucco – Verdi
Grand March from Aida – Verdi
Brother Dear from Die Fledermaus – Johann Strauss
Glory and Love from Faust – Charles Gounod
Easter Hymn from Cavalleria Rusticana – Pietro Mascagni
finishing with
Carmen – Bizet
We were joined by a tenor who sang some lovely early Italian romantic songs, a viola player who gave us Massenet’s Meditation and a trumpeter for the Grand March from Aida. We were also graced by a pair of crowbar players for the anvil chorus!

Blood running down my head, but the chick’s fine

We decided this morning that it was urgent to move Columbine and her chick, together with any potential siblings in ovo (‘scuse bad Latin) from the main coop to a smaller place where she could raise the wee ane in suitable accommodation. Her Maj and I surveyed one of the A-framed coops down in the goose pens and decided that it would do very well after a little cleaning, so we got down and dirty in that cause. Soon had the small coop clean and with a new layer of shavings inside, so the next task was to make a nest box for Columbine and her clutch of eggs/chick combo. An old cardboard box was pressed into service and partially-filled with shavings for the purpose.
This was when the head injury occurred. Now, PTC is bald on top and, as a consequence, the old scalp is fairly fragile and easily-damaged. Having scraped most of the top layer of skin off with the garage door a couple of days ago it stood no chance at all when I banged it into the iron beam that supports the roof of the coop as I leant inside; the last of the layers of skin were peeled from the scalp and the blood flowed freely. Undaunted by the injury, and far too cross to want to go in and have it sorted out, I insisted on carrying on with the exercise.
The chick was so well tucked into Columbine’s wing that it was tricky to disentangle it from her, but when that was accomplished I popped the chick in my top pocket and picked up Mum so that she could see the chick as I carried her down to the new coop. We popped them in and I went back to collect the other eggs that she had been sitting on, discarding the really old ones which were, by now, clearly addled.
Her Maj had not been idle and had been grinding up some meal for the chick, which, with a saucer of pebbles for water, were placed in the coop and the chook and chooklet shut up inside.
The gander was, by now, taking considerable interest in the proceedings and it was clear that he’d give them no peace, given half a chance. The run for the coop was goose-proof, but not chick-proof, so we re-arranged some chicken wire and corrugated iron to make the run suitable for its new occupants.
We’re keeping Columbine shut up inside today so she gets used to the new place and may open the coop so she and the chooklet can get into the run tomorrow if it suits them. She has settled into the back of the coop and seems happy on her new nest, so fingers crossed for the next few days. The fun bit will be moving them back to the main coop in due course, but we’ll worry about that when the time comes.
After all this poultry enterprise, went back in to get myself ready for the concert this afternoon and was surprised to see tracks of dried blood running down my face from the scrape on the head. Perhaps it’s time to get a nice protective syrup.
Oh, toggies tomorrow if all goes well.

Greenballs

You Are Emerald Green

Deep and mysterious, it often seems like no one truly gets you. Inside, you are very emotional and moody – though you don’t let it show. People usually have a strong reaction to you… profound love or deep hate. But you can even get those who hate you to come around. There’s something naturally harmonious about you.

What Color Green Are You?

Another little bit of blogging nonsense.

Singing in Fort William

Yesterday was the annual choral concert in Fort William where our local singers join forces with a choir from Fort William and hold an evening concert there on the Saturday. They repay the compliment by coming down here this afternoon for a repeat performance in Argyll.
It’s a long haul up to Fort William. We took the coast road via Oban and made it in just under two hours. Stopped for a bite of lunch and then on to the Lochaber High School for a rehearsal. The Queen of the Chooks came too and was dispatched back into town, she not being a member of the choral society, to do the shopping. The usual hiatus ensued with trying to work out seating arrangements for two choirs on one stage as a single chorus and then we had a surprisingly-brief rehearsal, getting away a good hour earlier than we’d expected.
On these occasions, the visitors (ourselves) are taken home by members of the home team for hospitality. We were welcomed back by Jill and Jim, who had entertained us the year before, so I can’t have made too bad an impression. They live down in at the foot of Glen Coe near Loch Leven, so a good half-hour drive back down the road. A very pleasant afternoon spent in chat about water supplies, smoking, sewerage, education, new cars and all sorts, with views over fabulous mountains before an excellent mushroom lasagne and watching everyone else eat the strawberry pavlova – a bit of a no-no for a naughty diabetic like me. Showered and changed, we headed back up the road to Fort Bill for the concert.
Very warm in the hall at the school, we discarded jackets and shirt sleeves were the order of the evening. All went surprisingly well, with relatively few shaky cues, although there were certainly some. The men are outnumbered at least two to one by the ladies, but they stick us up high so we have a chance of being heard. I haven’t got the dots or the programme in front of me at the moment, but we performed extracts from Nabucco, Aida, Faust and, for the second half, a choral version of Carmen, sung in English (which sounds ridiculous). Personally, the story of Carmen doesn’t do it for me; a slapper comes to a bad end with some good tunes in between. The Verdi was great fun for the basses; all mostly in the middle of our range and nothing too complicated in terms of harmony or counting, just the way we like it.

We have a chick

A retro-post by Pat the Chooks
Saturday, 29th April 2006
Down to release the chooks from their overnight captivity this morning and to check on Columbine, the broody black chook. Opened the coop to have a wee look at her and found her, as ever, firmly settled down on her clutch of assorted eggs through the ages. Just as I was about to close up, I heard a cheeping sound and realised that at least one of the eggs must have been successfully incubated and hatched. Leaving the coop at a gallop, I charged up to the house and called Her Maj to come down and see the new arrival. She wellied on her boots and we lifted Columbine to see what we had – a single new chick which must have been about twelve hours old or so.
Now, the tricky bits. The coop is no place for her to raise a clutch (or even a singleton chick) and Columbine has some other eggs under her. We are off to town mid-morning to pick up a couple of ladies from the singers for our trip to Fort Bill and have no time to sort anything else out and will be back in the wee smalls; alternative accommodation will have to wait until Sunday morning, assuming the new arrival is robust enough to make it through the day.
We did go round and consult with the oracle next door, who gave some good advice which we shall follow. The problem is that the suitable coop we could set aside for the new family is in the goose pen and, with Gertie about to hatch her egg (with luck), the Sergeant will be acting the bully-boy again and might give the chook and chick(s) a hard time. Thinking caps on.

Singing in Fort William

Yesterday was the annual choral concert in Fort William where our local singers join forces with a choir from Fort William and hold an evening concert there on the Saturday. They repay the compliment by coming down here this afternoon for a repeat performance in Argyll.
It’s a long haul up to Fort William. We took the coast road via Oban and made it in just under two hours. Stopped for a bite of lunch and then on to the Lochaber High School for a rehearsal. The Queen of the Chooks came too and was dispatched back into town, she not being a member of the choral society, to do the shopping. The usual hiatus ensued with trying to work out seating arrangements for two choirs on one stage as a single chorus and then we had a surprisingly-brief rehearsal, getting away a good hour earlier than we’d expected.
On these occasions, the visitors (ourselves) are taken home by members of the home team for hospitality. We were welcomed back by Jill and Jim, who had entertained us the year before, so I can’t have made too bad an impression. They live down in at the foot of Glen Coe near Loch Leven, so a good half-hour drive back down the road. A very pleasant afternoon spent in chat about water supplies, smoking, sewerage, education, new cars and all sorts, with views over fabulous mountains before an excellent mushroom lasagne and watching everyone else eat the strawberry pavlova – a bit of a no-no for a naughty diabetic like me. Showered and changed, we headed back up the road to Fort Bill for the concert.
Very warm in the hall at the school, we discarded jackets and shirt sleeves were the order of the evening. All went surprisingly well, with relatively few shaky cues, although there were certainly some. The men are outnumbered at least two to one by the ladies, but they stick us up high so we have a chance of being heard. I haven’t got the dots or the programme in front of me at the moment, but we performed extracts from Nabucco, Aida, Faust and, for the second half, a choral version of Carmen, sung in English (which sounds ridiculous). Personally, the story of Carmen doesn’t do it for me; a slapper comes to a bad end with some good tunes in between. The Verdi was great fun for the basses; all mostly in the middle of our range and nothing too complicated in terms of harmony or counting, just the way we like it.

We have a chick

A retro-post by Pat the Chooks
Saturday, 29th April 2006
Down to release the chooks from their overnight captivity this morning and to check on Columbine, the broody black chook. Opened the coop to have a wee look at her and found her, as ever, firmly settled down on her clutch of assorted eggs through the ages. Just as I was about to close up, I heard a cheeping sound and realised that at least one of the eggs must have been successfully incubated and hatched. Leaving the coop at a gallop, I charged up to the house and called Her Maj to come down and see the new arrival. She wellied on her boots and we lifted Columbine to see what we had – a single new chick which must have been about twelve hours old or so.
Now, the tricky bits. The coop is no place for her to raise a clutch (or even a singleton chick) and Columbine has some other eggs under her. We are off to town mid-morning to pick up a couple of ladies from the singers for our trip to Fort Bill and have no time to sort anything else out and will be back in the wee smalls; alternative accommodation will have to wait until Sunday morning, assuming the new arrival is robust enough to make it through the day.
We did go round and consult with the oracle next door, who gave some good advice which we shall follow. The problem is that the suitable coop we could set aside for the new family is in the goose pen and, with Gertie about to hatch her egg (with luck), the Sergeant will be acting the bully-boy again and might give the chook and chick(s) a hard time. Thinking caps on.